From a very early age, my father told me he was part Cherokee. Which meant I was part Cherokee. How much was always up in the air but there was some comfort in knowing whether it was a quarter, an eighth or even a sixteenth, I was a native American. Hell, I ate corn all the time.

My father told me many things as a boy. Of course, I had my own memories. I can actually remember looking out through the upright slats of my crib and seeing the dining room furniture. I know, most people say that's not possible, but it's true.

I remember my grandfather's house where we lived. Poor neighborhood. Run down, decrepit old place. Wire fence out front. Rain barrel at the far side of the house. Missing shingles on the roof. I remember holes in the floor where you could look down and see the dirt below. I also remember my grandfather was a mean drunk and the day my dad knocked him down.

My dad. What a piece of work he turned out to be. The man could sell ice water in Alaska but chose to lead a life of smoke and mirrors. Always finding the easy way out. For him. The rest of us took the blows and tried to move on.

Throughout my life, I tried to be a good person. I'm sure there are a few people out there who would debate that with me, but in general, it was an opinion based on my own perceptions as opposed to that of others. As a part of my perceptions/ego/self-esteem/etc. I allowed myself to express who I was in various ways.

Short hair. Long hair. Beard. Style of clothes. Type of cars. Jewelry. And of course tattoos. Now there's an irreversible statement about who you think you are. Thank god I never got into piercings. I know, you're probably thinking I'm quite the stylish trendsetter, and you'd be right. My t-shirt, shorts, and shower shoes are just a cover.

I have a total of 9 tattoos. All of them designed by me for various events and people in my life. Each one painstakingly created to be a reflection of those events and people that have been life changing for me. Yes, even the full calf length tattoo of BigFoot as well.

My dad told me I was part Cherokee and in honor of that, I designed an elaborate dreamcatcher full armband with feathers and beads and plenty of mojo. I sat in a chair being stuck thousands of times by needles for over 14 hours. And it cost me much wampum. In the end, it was a work of art that often gets oohs and ahhs by the masses.

A few months ago I joined one of those online ancestry organizations to start building the old family tree. I'm thinking someone might find it important someday. Then I had my DNA determined by another online DNA organization. Surprisingly I have over 1500 relatives all around the world. Not a one of them Cherokee.

Turns out I don't have a single drop of native American blood in me. I am 99.4% European. The other .6% is mutt, bullfrog, and troll. While the thought of being a Viking hardly pales to being Cherokee, there is this little issue of a fucking dreamcatcher on my arm.

Now I know that 2 of the 3 people who will actually read my post will probably laugh their asses off, and I admit it is funny, but when people ask "what does this one mean" or "what does that one mean", what cool story can I come up with that doesn't give credence to the arguments posed by non-tattooist?

Do I set off trying to morph a dreamcatcher into a Viking battle axe? Do I somehow make it a doorway into Valhalla? Yeah.. sure Rocco.. Vikings used feathers and beads all the time. Dumbass.

No, I think I'm stuck with it. I'm just going to tell everyone I am the bastard child of Ragnar Lothbrok and Thunderwoman, high princess of the Cherokee nation.

Just call me Thunderstruck.